


Desperately Lonely and Missing a Sock

by Freebooter4Ever



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Finding love in a laundromat, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Sharing hot cocoa, bowling, except its one of those painful metal laundromat seats, lost sock, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 20:52:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17732462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freebooter4Ever/pseuds/Freebooter4Ever
Summary: Jesse loses his beloved sock and is devastated until he meets the man who stole his sock from the local laundromat. A man who happens to be handsome and equally as much a hot mess as Jesse.





	Desperately Lonely and Missing a Sock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CommonNonsense](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/gifts).



> The glorious author CommonNonsense tragically lost their Hanzo sock, and it sounded like the best mchanzo meet cute idea ever so. I also made Jesse's sock wanted poster, it's on my tumblr.
> 
> THANK YOU so so so much to Ilyen and Vaguely-Concerned who took time to beta this sily fic!! Special thanks to Vaguely-Concerned who suggested Jesse do something with his spurs.
> 
> This fic is dedicated to all the people out there who have experienced the shitty laundromats of midwestern america in negative degree weather when the snow isn't snow anymore it's just ice and misery. The bowling alley and laundromat in this story are real places, though both have sadly shut down.

Jesse McCree is a creature of habit. He wears a very specific pair of socks to bed every night. Handknit socks made from the softest, highest quality merino wool. Every time he wiggles his feet in those socks, Jesse remembers that there is _real_ warmth somewhere out there. The kind of heat that warms your insides and doesn’t fade away. Even if he is currently stuck in a subzero wasteland, where snow accumulates by the hour.

 

Some nights he needs that reminder more often than others.

 

It’s a couple weeks after New Years, and while the holidays can get lonely on the run, the post-holidays are worse. No more people bustling, no more casual conversations with strangers, and people are less inclined towards being generous with their time or affection. The holiday decorations come down, the snow comes down harder, the gas bills rise, and if Jesse could be anywhere other than the wrong end of Chicago right now, he would.

 

Instead he’s sitting here, freezing his ass off in the dark, on his single twin bed, miserable and holding a singular sock.

 

He isn't as cold as he could be. Jesse’s seen the crumbly brick apartments at the edge of town; the half demolished ones where most squatters like him hole up; the ones missing entire walls. Jesse’s building is only missing a couple of corners, a few bricks here or there, and all of the concrete back steps. He’s very thankful to be staying in this sixth floor studio on his best friend’s dime.

 

With his free hand, Jesse reaches into his serape and pulls out a photo. The last surviving family photo according to Genji. One where Genji is young and whole, but still sporting his trademark maniacal grin. And standing next to Genji in the photo is the man Jesse is trying to find.

 

Word on the street says Talon is increasing their recruitment efforts. Overwatch dismissed the rumors as fear mongering. Jesse figures it’s more likely to be escalation. Crucial information leaks about the secret Overwatch recall, and suddenly Talon decides to ramp up their own team. Either way, all sources point to a certain yakuza heir being of particular interest to the terrorist organization. And while Shimada so far disdained Genji’s invitation to join Overwatch, who knows how the man would react to being forcibly inducted into Talon.

 

Basically, for a reason unfathomable to Jesse, Genji doesn’t want his brother to end up dead, so he put Jesse, Blackwatch’s ex top retrieval expert, on the case.

 

“Why we’re bothering to save this fucker, I still don't know,” Jesse mutters. He flicks the photo to the floor.

 

He has the likeness memorized by now. The snooty face, the tailored clothes, the thick clean hair, the porcelain skin; everything screaming beautiful, healthy, and well cared for. It’s hard to forget. Genji said his brother hasn’t changed much with age either. That Jesse should watch out for a beard, a new bow, and a higher ponytail, but otherwise it’s all the same.

 

Overall not Jesse’s type. Too rich. The kinda guy who wouldn’t look twice at Jesse McCree: raggedy bounty hunter who owns a single week’s set of clothes, and wears them till they fall off and who wouldn’t even have a roof over his head if it weren’t for Genji’s generosity. And Jesse wouldn’t look back at a guy like him...no matter how damn piercing those pretty eyes are.

 

It’s been a while since Jesse’s picked up a lucrative bounty. He’s trying to save money by relying on the collective heating coming from the surrounding apartments rather than turning on his own. His apartment may have the luxury of all four walls but it’s perpetually half freezing anyway.

 

His only method for making the cold bearable is to cover his feet in his favorite thick wooly socks and bring back cherished memories of a heat so dry it warms the cockles of his shriveled heart. Except tonight this is impossible. He lost his last source of comfort. He will have to go to bed with cold feet.

 

Because he left one of his socks in the laundromat.

 

To make matters worse, despite the sun setting at four in the afternoon everyday, yellow street light fills his room at all hours of the night and makes it nearly as bright as day. Jesse reaches over the bed to twitch the cheap window curtain closed. The curtain stretches as far as it can go but leaves a two inch gap. He gives it one final tug and the curtain swishes closed on the right side while popping open on the left. He tugs the left side closed and the right pops open. Then the right side gets caught on a nail and won’t close.

 

Jesse leaves it. Might as well allow the light to penetrate every inch of his shadowy loneliness and reveal it to the world. He flops backwards onto his bed in defeat. A shiver runs down his spine.

 

He covers his eyes with the sad sock to block out what light he can and falls asleep fully clothed, boots still on and hanging over the edge, snowmelt dripping from between the tread.

 

\---

 

The first thing he does when he finally wakes up is groggily stare at his tablet for a few hours and let the bright light kick his brain back into full function. Then he gets caught up in a good book, a new one Genji sent about samurai fighting for honor and redemption in outer space who wear metal cowboy hats to prevent their brains from being sucked out by the aliens they’re fighting. Then Jesse realizes it’s four in the afternoon and he hasn’t eaten anything. And finally, after that, with his belly full, he decides to make the trek to look for his sock.

 

He lives a full five blocks from the nearest laundromat and has to trudge half a mile through three feet of snow every time he needs to do laundry. Which is more often than he’d like since he has so few clothes. Flannel takes up a lot of room in a duffle.

 

The laundromat is not hard to find. It rather stands out. The sole single story building in a five block radius, wedged tightly between two of the brick tenements; probably the sole A-frame building in all of Chicago proper, and undoubtedly the only tiny ski chalet in all of Illinois. Who thought ‘german ski shack’ was a good laundromat theme, he doesn’t know, but the building has everything from the stereotypical hand detailed old world lettering to gingerbread trim. And in the past few weeks it’s been decked out in blue and white lights, like something straight out of the North Pole.

 

But last night all the the extra lights and color must’ve gone dim leaving tonight’s iteration of the _Sturm Und Drang Suds N Dash_ est 1931 laundromat dark and pale. At night the heavy blanket of snow and precarious icicles hanging from the eaves feel that much colder. And the linoleum floor and dented steel machines turn from cozy to stark and uninviting.

 

Jesse stands on the opposite side of the street with his duffle slung over his back, full of his usual clothes but sans one sock. He surveys the depressive mood shift of the laundromat, and despairs of ever finding his match.

 

He huffs a sigh and pauses there on the sidewalk for a bit. For dramatic effect.

 

Determined to at least try, he strides purposefully towards the door. But it only takes a few steps to discover half the road is ice. He nearly slips, until he checks that nobody is watching and waddles like a penguin the rest of the way. Cowboy boots have the worst tread.

 

Inside, he slings his bag onto the nearest washer, starts a load, and then, after inspecting the lost and found, performs a thorough search of the premises. He checks and double checks every corner and behind every dryer, but to no avail.

 

Someone stole his sock.

 

He can understand why. It isn’t often Jesse spends money on superfluous things like high quality clothing, but sturdy wool socks are a luxury he insists upon. Anyone would be proud of owning his fancy socks. Especially thanks to the meticulously handknit fair isle pattern designed especially for him by an artist in Albuquerque. He’s not letting the socks go without a fight.

 

So, while his laundry is drying, he steps into the nearby printing store and picks up a pack of highlighters and a stack of watercolor paper.

 

It takes him an unmentionable amount of time to draw a likeness of his sock without the sock’s partner on hand. He supposes it would have been easier to simply stick the sock in a copy machine and let the printer do it’s work, but he feels this needs a personal touch. His palette is limited to highlighter neon yellow, green, blue, and pink, and his hand keeps shaking from the chug-chug-rumble of the dryer he’s using as a drawing surface (it’s warmer to sit next to the machines rather than the folding tables beside the door). But he manages.

 

It takes him over twenty discarded attempts to finally finish his sock portrait. Carefully he crops the edges of the paper to an exact size, and brings it to the notice board. There’s a particular poster he plans on repurposing to his own use.

 

The sock drawing fits perfectly. It covers both the ‘dead or alive’ text and the unflattering black and white police sketch of Jesse himself. Unlike the rudimentary sketch, Jesse’s drawing is artistically rendered in multiple layers of highlighter ink on thick paper without even a shadow of the darker ink showing through. Jesse uses the pink highlighter to add ‘Call’ in front of his name printed under the photo, and then pencils in his local burner phone number beneath the reward money. Untraceable, but still reachable. The GPS in the phone is broken beyond repair, and still registers itself as in “Atlanta” no matter where in the world he goes.

 

Satisfied, Jesse bundles up his laundry, long gone cold in the finished dryer, shoves it into his duffle, and returns to his apartment to sleep away the cold, and to wait. He drifts off while reading in bed, sometime around nine.

 

Unfortunately he jolts awake just before two am from a nightmare. A particularly heinous one, where every memory congealed together in an indecipherable horror that absurdly left perfectly mundane things like glass chandeliers and goldenrod silk curtains feeling like the world’s worst portents. There’s no way he’s going to fall back asleep. So he does the next best thing and, already fully dressed anyway, walks down the street to the 24 hour bowling alley.

 

Like the laundromat, the bowling alley only makes sense in this part of town if you understand that sometime a century ago America took to the sport with a fanaticism that resulted in such places cropping up everywhere. Even if nowadays most of America requires more continuously stimulating forms of entertainment, their fond memories help keep the bowling alleys frozen in time while forcing children to learn the game in school for decades to come.

 

The only people who actually show up to bowl anymore are either regulars, harmless senior citizens who can barely see, or local oddballs too weird to fit in at normal entertainment venues, like bars or shopping malls or whatever else passes for a good time these days. Some days, if he eats enough greens and fiber, Jesse manages to fit into all three categories: regular, old, and odd. But at a bowling alley no one ever pays any attention to the scruffy cowboy whose outfit blends seamlessly into the retro decor.

 

This particular bowling alley is on the second floor of an apartment high rise, directly above the printing shop. Jesse didn’t rent from this apartment specifically for this reason, despite the inhouse laundry and central air heating. Jesse can sleep through a lot, but it is simply impossible to make an entire floor of twelve bowling lanes soundproof.

 

The door to the bowling alley is itself old, and rather dilapidated, with a rusted neon sign and one of those plastic awnings covered in dirt from the last century. Overall the look reminds Jesse of his favorite New York City bathhouse. It’s not a door most people would be willing to enter, and the narrow musty staircase to the second floor is not one most people would go up, and that suits Jesse just fine.

 

He rounds the corner at the top of the stairs and feels an immediate wash of calm from the telltale sounds of pins hitting polished wood. There’s only one other person bowling at this time of night. A man about Jesse’s age sporting a hipster undercut, overly neat beard, and a tight ass. Which is about all that Jesse can see from his vantage point as the man readies for his roll. Jesse pauses to watch as Mr. Tight-Ass bowls a beautifully executed strike. It’s enough to make a man jealous for multiple reasons.

 

Feeling energized with new purpose, Jesse saunters up to the counter, orders two rounds, and a pair of size thirteen shoes. There are eleven available lanes open for him. Yet the clerk gives Jesse the lane next to the only other one in use. Because a man walking into a bowling alley at two in the morning alone is definitely lookin’ to be social.

 

Jesse sits on one of the uncomfortable molded plastic seats and pulls his boots off to swap for more appropriate bowling shoes. Mr. Tight-Ass using the lane next door gives him a look, and scrunches up his nose a little. Jesse supposes he might smell a bit ripe. On laundry day he rewears one set of clothes so that he has an almost full set of clean clothes for the next week. He tries to sniff his socks when he bends down to tie his rented bowling shoes and regrets it almost immediately. He maybe should have washed these socks and picked a different pair. These might have been from the day he hired out to assist in Christmas tree pickup. Lots of sweat and long hours in the boots.

 

Jesse tries not to let the disapproving glances from his neighbor get to him.

 

Instead he unhooks his spurs from his cowboy boots, gives them a good spin to dislodge any melting snow, and then reattaches them to his bowling shoes. He is extra careful when adjusting the height, so as to make sure the spurs won't hit the floor and ruin the wood. Finally satisfied after a few small adjustments, he kicks out his leg and gives it a good shake. The spurs jingle happily, securely stuck on his shoe. Jesse surges to his feet with a clank and jangle, and looks up to see Mr. Tight-Ass staring at him in horror.

 

“The sound helps me time my approach,” Jesse announces for his neighbor’s benefit, “If I don’t wear em, it throws my whole game off.”

 

Jesse stretches, turning away from the adjacent lane so as not to accidentally make eye contact when he’s limbering up his stiff joints. But he feels Mr. Tight-Ass watching him from behind the whole time, making Jesse wonder if it’s not an entirely negative stare. He does one last twist and picks up his ball, throwing a wink in the direction of his neighbor before he steps up to the line. His first roll isn’t great, but he manages to pick up a spare anyway, and the next time he looks over at Mr. Tight-Ass there’s a faint blush growing on the man’s cheeks.

 

Jesse’s night just got a hell of a lot better.

 

An hour later Jesse is at the end of the first round, and his score isn’t as high as it usually is. But he hasn’t played in a few months, and he’s a bit rusty, so he thinks it’s understandable. Thankfully this alley is old fashioned enough to use paper and pencil so unless Jesse’s neighbor has an inhuman capability of adding and remembering numbers in his head, Jesse’s embarrassment can be kept to himself.

 

Jesse takes a break over at the bar and orders a pitcher of beer. He decides to test his luck and returns to his lane with two cups. He sets the pitcher down on the communal scoring table between the lanes and fills his own cup.

 

Mr. Tight-Ass notices the extra cup pretty quickly. As if he’d been watching. He smirks as he silently pours his own and takes a long sip.

 

Jesse grins back, unable to subdue the excitement brewing in his gut. He stretches his long legs across the aisle between lanes in an attempt to insinuate himself into his neighbor’s space; to try and encourage fraternization by blurring the boundaries a bit. Jesse crosses his ankles lazily and leans back in his plastic chair as he drinks. And adjusts his belt buckle for good measure.

 

“117, not bad,” Mr. Tight-Ass says with a deviously teasing smile, naming Jesse’s exact damn score.

 

Jesse spits out his beer and starts hacking a cough. Jesse knows he bowled horribly, 117 is a shameful number, but to have confirmation that his handsome skillful neighbor watched him close enough to count his score, and knows it, and knows Jesse knows he knows...is almost a fate worse than death.

 

“However, I have never seen someone bowl two strikes - two in a row even - while also throwing three gutter balls in the same game,” the man continues, and takes a sip of his own beer, “It was...impressively erratic to watch.”

 

“It’s been a while,” Jesse grumbles, feeling let down, having fallen two letters short of the response he wanted. He crosses his arms and slouches farther in his seat. He glares at the pins as if it’s their fault. Technically it is.

 

“Hmmm,” the man says. His eyes are warm, even if the smile is still a little mean. He sets his cup down and picks up the ball again. When he steps up to the approach, his body is a singular graceful line, all power and strength, and the ball rolls down the perfect center to hit a perfect strike. And Jesse’s mouth might be a little dry. He supposes that’s how you take erratic to erotic.

 

He gulps down more beer. “Pretty handy with your bowl, there,” Jesse says.

 

The man stares at Jesse like he’s unsure if Jesse just made a joke or complimented him.

 

Jesse isn’t exactly sure himself. The only excuse he has is that it’s three am, his brain is a tiny bit fuzzy, and he hasn’t stopped staring at the man’s slender but terrifyingly capable hands since he arrived.

 

A minute of silent eye contact, during which Jesse feels terribly exposed, before Mr. Tight-Ass draws a slash through the remainder of his frames and shuffles to a new score sheet.

 

“Perhaps a little competition would entice you to bowl more consistently,” the man offers, looking up at Jesse from under his long, dark lashes.

 

“Oh, it could entice me to somethin’,” Jesse mutters without thinking.

 

“What?” the man asks.

 

“Uh. I said, yeah. Sure. I wouldn’t turn down some friendly competition,” Jesse sits up hastily and finds his second blank scorecard, “What’s your name, darlin?”

 

Jesse receives a bit of a long look for the nickname, but the man eventually says, “Hanzo.”

 

Jesse nods. “Pleasure to meet you, you can call me Jesse.” He scribbles his own name on the first row and Hanzo’s name on the second. He sees Hanzo do the same with his own scorecard, keeping Jesse honest.

 

Jesse recognizes the name, and he gives the man a second glance, but this Hanzo is rough around the edges, wearing ratty sweatpants of all things, and with more piercings than Jesse can count. He doesn’t look like a guy who murdered his way to a vast inheritance. So Jesse dismisses the coincidence to focus on the game.

 

Neither of them bowl very well. Hanzo goes from picking up spares and strikes consistently to actually getting his first gutterball of the night. Meanwhile Jesse’s own game is so distracted, that sometimes he swears the pins are moving. He goes to get another pitcher of beer.

 

In Hanzo’s defense, his ball only ended up in the gutter that one time because Jesse was in the middle of telling a story, and Jesse timed the punchline to perfectly coincide with the moment Hanzo swung his arm back. And the man started laughing so hard he dropped the ball, narrowly missing his own foot, and it rolled slowly down the lane and puttered sadly into the gutter. To Jesse’s surprise though, Hanzo laughed through the whole thing. He didn’t even rightfully accuse Jesse of creative cheating.

 

“I’m not actually competitive over this,” Hanzo explains as they take another beer break halfway through, “Perfecting my game helps me focus, but I never feel the need to win.” He’s sitting on Jesse’s side of the ugly yellow seats, and his feet are propped against the score table. Hanzo’s shoulder keeps ‘accidentally’ bumping into Jesse’s chest and Jesse is feeling a little giddy.

 

“A tragedy,” Jesse says, “Because if you bowl this well on sleep deprivation and alcohol, I imagine you could clean up nicely in a league.”

 

Hanzo makes a face, “I do not believe in organized sports, organized crime, or organized religion.”

 

“I’ll drink to that,” Jesse clinks their plastic cups together.

 

“Meet me on a shooting range, however,” Hanzo continues with a sly look, “and you won’t stand a chance.”

 

“Don’t get too cocky,” Jesse says, downing the rest of his cup, “I can hold my own on a shooting range myself.”

 

“Oh really?” Hanzo asks, turning in his seat to look Jesse full in the face with genuine interest.

 

“Oh yes,” Jesse replies, “What, did you think my excellent aim was restricted to bowling?”

 

Hanzo starts laughing again. Jesse thinks Hanzo must not laugh a lot, because it’s slightly crazed, and a touch worrying. But there are honest to god tears at the corners of Hanzo’s eyes, and he’s leaning in towards Jesse a tad too closely. And his hair smells mighty fine.

 

It’d be very easy for Jesse to lean those last few inches forward, cup his hand around the back of Hanzo’s neck, and give him a quick peck on the lips. Just to see what happens, shooting accuracy be damned.

 

He probably would normally, except tonight he’s got a game to finish.

 

Jesse drags himself out of the chair, away from Hanzo’s warmth, and saunters up to the line, maybe hoping Hanzo has stopped laughing long enough to watch Jesse’s form. For the first time in like three frames Jesse finally bowls a strike. Hanzo raises his cup of beer to him in congratulations.Hanzo stands to collect his own ball and pats Jesse’s knee as they switch places. If Jesse felt a fond little squeeze in there as well, he is not gonna make a big deal out of it, and Jesse is certainly not gonna let it short circuit his brain or effect his bowling.

 

On Jesse's next roll the ball somehow almost goes _backwards_.

 

Unsurprisingly Hanzo wins the game. Surprisingly, Jesse doesn’t mind one bit. He only mourns when Hanzo gets up from where he is practically sitting in Jesse’s lap, and returns to his own lane to swap for his street shoes. Jesse watches as the man bends down to untie his laces, using the time to admire Hanzo’s broad shoulders and nimble fingers. He can easily believe those arms could expertly handle a gun. He’d look pretty damn nice on a shooting range. Jesse wonders if he’s used up too much of his luck this evening to try to get the guy’s number at the end of the night as well. Jesse might only be here a few more weeks, but his mind conjures up a few fantasies that say meeting again might be worth his while.

 

That is until Hanzo removes his shoes. And Jesse notices his socks don’t match.

 

All thoughts of a romantic nature fly out of Jesse’s head entirely. Because there, pulled loosely over Hanzo’s smaller foot (the Wrong foot based on how Jesse has carefully worn the exact left/right shape into that pair), is Jesse’s precious cactus sock.

 

Hanzo notices Jesse’s stare. Understandable since it’s probably been a few minutes.

 

“Ah, I...ran out of clean socks,” Hanzo says defensively, “This isn’t even mine...it was...a gift…” He averts his eyes. Jesse gets the sense that the man is ashamed, not of having mismatched socks, but of wearing one with a glowing burgundy sunset and prickly green cacti marching across an otherwise barren desert. Hanzo pulls his shoe over the cacti clad foot first, and then tries to scrunch the sock down below the ankle of his converse high tops to hide it.

 

The anger boiling in Jesse’s blood has no logic to it. Except the irrational extra sensitive emotions of sleep deprivation, and the heart wrenching discovery that his new friend is the sock thief he’s been trying to suss out.

 

“Yeah, well, good game,” Jesse shrugs nonchalantly. He all but shoves his feet into his cowboy boots, wraps his serape back around himself, tilts his hat down to hide his face, gives a final nod to Mr. Tight-Ass, and leaves. He refuses to look back. No matter how good Hanzo’s butt looked in those blue sweatpants behind that damned shiny gold dragon print (he wasn’t staring, the metallic shimmer drew the eye’s attention, is all).

 

Hanzo doesn’t follow him out.

 

Jesse licks his wounded pride in his apartment, cleaning and recleaning his gun a few times, trying to remember where the nearest shooting range is and trying not to wonder what the chances of running into Hanzo there would be. He’s still pissed off a few days later when his burner phone suddenly rings.

 

Jesse picks up, grouching out a testy ‘hello’.

 

“Hello,” Hanzo’s voice replies, smooth and cool. One word and it sends electricity all the way down to Jesse’s nether regions.

 

Jesse sits straight up in his seat. “How did you get this number?” he asks.

 

“I….” Hanzo seems to be weighing the pros and cons of his next sentence, “I believe you lost a sock.”

 

“The reward poster…” Jesse says, realization dawning.

 

“The reward poster,” Hanzo agrees, “Although, I feel I must add...I’ve been here a few weeks, and that poster has been up the entire time. The drawing looks nothing like you, but I remembered it well, and as soon as I saw the new update while doing laundry today, I knew. You should be more circumspect, I don’t know how you have gone this long without detection.”

 

“You have my sock?” Jesse interrupts, not in the mood for a lecture.

 

“I do,” Hanzo admits.

 

There’s a long pause.

 

“It...hasn’t been washed,” Hanzo adds, sounding apologetic.

 

“You’re in a laundromat and you couldn’t wash _my_ sock that _you_ wore without permission?” Jesse asks.

 

“My perm press load was already washing and I was still wearing the sock when I saw the poster,” Hanzo explains, “It would be a crime to throw a wool sock in with cotton whites.”

 

“Still wearing...you wore my sock for _three days straight_?” Jesse asks.

 

“It’s been a tough few weeks,” Hanzo replies.

 

“Fine, whatever,” Jesse sighs, “When can I get em back?”

 

“I’ll be at the laundromat for the next hour,” Hanzo offers.

 

“You’re gonna make me walk a half mile in the snow without my wooly socks to come pick up my own damn property?” Jesse demands.

 

“The lack of compacted wear on the bottom of the sock compared to the permanent stretch of the stitch says that while you might wear it a lot you have never walked a single block in this sock,” Hanzo argues.

 

“So you’re a knitting expert as well as a gun and bowling expert, huh? That entirely figures,” Jesse harumphs and hangs up.

 

He supposes he should be grateful Hanzo tried contacting him at all. Instead Jesse is grateful for the anger fueling his inner fire to keep him warm on the long walk to the laundromat. He swings the glass door open and the jingle of the bell alerts Hanzo to his presence. Hanzo turns around, looking guilty. Jesse crosses his arms over his chest and leans a hip on the nearest dryer.

 

Hanzo calmly finishes loading his whites into the dryer and presses the on button. Jesse hefts himself onto the top of the dryer and lets it warm his butt from where he fell on his ass while walking a little too fast for the icy conditions. He swings his legs and stares at Hanzo balefully. Hanzo carefully pulls the missing cactus sock out of his sweatpants pocket and hands it over to Jesse. Jesse gingerly caresses it before slipping it into his own inner vest pocket.

 

For being worn three days straight, he really wishes the sock stunk. Or at least smelled as strong as his do after one day. Instead the smell reminds him of summer forests and some kind of smoke. It creates an ache in Jesse for a place he’s never been.

 

With the sock safely back in his possession, Jesse knows he could probably leave now, he got what he came for, but he stays seated on the dryer. He pretends it’s the warmth. He’s not looking forward to braving that snow again.

 

Hanzo nudges him to the side and sits next to him. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze between the coin deposits on either side of the dryer.

 

“Thanks,” Jesse says.

 

“I also tore down the poster,” Hanzo hands over a crisp sheet of paper, still intact except for the staples ripped from the edges, “since you do not need it up anymore.”

 

“Probably smart, thanks,” Jesse agrees and accepts the offering.

 

“Seemed a shame to throw out such a work of art,” Hanzo adds.

 

Jesse snorts, looking at his sock drawing. “Here,” he says, “you can keep it.” He hands it back.

 

“Thank you,” Hanzo says, almost sounding like he means it.

 

If Jesse glances just a little to the right he can see a tiny smile on Hanzo’s face.

 

Hanzo smoothes out the paper and stares down at Jesse’s sock portrait, exuding admiration.

 

Suddenly the laundromat no longer feels pale, stark, or cold.

 

In fact, it’s quite warm. And not just cause of the hot dryer running under his ass. Or the press of Hanzo’s muscular leg against Jesse’s. Or Hanzo’s hand that somehow found its way to Jesse’s knee, as if it got lost somewhere between setting down the wanted poster and returning to Hanzo’s lap. Jesse isn’t complaining.

 

Instead Jesse scoots his hand holding up his weight a little farther behind Hanzo on the dryer, just enough that Jesse can lean a little closer so that their shoulders touch and he can look deep into Hanzo’s eyes as they talk.

 

There’s a small encouraging smile on Hanzo’s face, and the man doesn’t seem to mind at all that Jesse’s face or sock is on a wanted poster. Which seems a might suspicious but Jesse supposes it could just mean he’s into bad boys.

 

Unsurprising, given the piercings, and the undercut, and the ‘no-nonsense weary-traveler’ style the guy cultivates. All Hanzo’s clothes have well worn holes or patched tears in them. Jesse makes sure to take note of this as Hanzo unloads his colors from the dryer and loads up the whites.

 

Meanwhile the snow is falling disconcertingly hard outside the window. Jesse probably should be more worried about that than he is. Weather is mighty unpredictable in this part of town, what with the lake effect and all. One minute everything is free and clear. And the next minute you’re an hour into a conversation with a handsome man on top of a dryer and five inches of snow has already built up outside the door.

 

“So, do you come often to Chicago’s finest ski chalet?” Jesse asks, as Hanzo finishes folding his clothes and then hops right back onto the dryer, somehow insinuating himself even closer into Jesse’s space.

 

Hanzo snorts, “I prefer the real thing.”

 

“You’ve seen the real thing?” Jesse is surprised. His social circles don’t typically run with the ‘european ski vacation’ types.

 

“I have, in different circumstances,” Hanzo raises an eyebrow questioning Jesse’s surprise.

 

“I assumed you were well traveled, but wasn’t sure how accurate my assumptions were,” Jesse explains.

 

“I have been all over the world,” Hanzo confirms quietly. He turns his face from Jesse, and seems to retreat into his head.

 

“I’ve been all over the world too, but can’t say I’ve ever patronized any European ski chalets. Never skied in my life. Didn’t see snow for the first time til I was eighteen. I probably wouldn’t even be able to keep the damn wooden ski things on my feet. Looks like a lot of flailing and dodging trees to me,” Jesse says with a grin, “I get enough of that when I’m drunk.”

 

Hanzo chuckles, “I learned to ski when I was five. The skis buckle to specially fitted ski boots. I am not surprised you never learned, as I doubt they would let you attach the spurs.”

 

Jesse’s cheeks are already warm, but having Hanzo turn a teasing affectionate smile on him while referencing Jesse’s unique attire makes his insides positively tingle.

 

“Hey, if a thing can’t be done in spurs, it probably ought to not be done at all,” Jesse jokes.

 

“An interesting life philosophy,” Hanzo says, “It sounds almost like a challenge…”

 

Jesse nearly chokes trying to swallow his own spit as thoughts pop into his mind of wearing his boots, and maybe even his hat, to bed for reasons more fun than the cold.

 

“Next time I am in a ski chalet I shall keep an eye out for your poster, so I might call you and get you on the slopes,” Hanzo adds.

 

It takes Jesse a second to realize that Hanzo is probably aware the number on the current poster is temporary to the area, and that Hanzo has surmised he will not be given any sort of permanent communication option, therefore leaving this spontaneous connection of theirs to a limited engagement. Which is true, and exactly Jesse’s usual policy of cut and run. Probably one of the reasons Jesse has so few friends besides his ex overwatch buddies. It worries Jesse to discover he is heavily disappointed by the thought of not being able to give Hanzo a proper number and telling him to call _anytime_.

 

Not enough to do something stupid like give an unknown entity the heavily guarded digits that feed into his old military com device.

 

But, oh, the temptation.

 

Jesse has to remind himself he doesn’t even like snow.

 

“Don’t those fancy ski chalets have the apocalyptic moving swings to take people to the top of the mountain? I bet those contraptions allow spurs, no downhill momentum required. I can ride that, and watch your expertise from a distance,” Jesse says.

 

Hanzo laughs again, “Resorts usually do have ski lifts, but when I went in my youth we almost exclusively used helicopters.”

 

“A helicopter?” Jesse sputters, “To drop you off at the top of an isolated, snow covered mountain like some donner party reenactment?”

 

Hanzo nods.

 

“You’re pulling my leg,” Jesse says.

 

Hanzo’s hand immediately twitches away from Jesse’s knee. Jesse hastily reaches over and grabs it back. He entwines their fingers together and holds Hanzo’s hand on top of his leg as if it’s completely casual. Hanzo squeezes Jesse’s hand in return.

 

Totally normal, and not the most random, luckiest moment Jesse McCree has ever had in his entire life.

 

Well, maybe not luckiest _ever_ but definitely in the past seven years. Jesse had been beginning to think he’d used up all his luck in his first thirty years of life.

 

“It sounds like you’re a ski chalet expert then,” Jesse says, “Maybe you could give the proprietors here some decorating tips. They’re probably more like me, never seen any place like this except in photos.”

 

“I don’t think I would change a thing,” Hanzo admits. He stares down at their joined hands. “I’m beginning to form an appreciation for knockoff americana. I am gleaning a lot more enjoyment from the Suds n Dash version than I ever did from any luxury chalet in Europe or Japan.”

 

“Americana, huh? You saying you like my spurs?” Jesse winks.

 

“And the hat,” Hanzo says.

 

“And the socks?”

 

“Even the socks.”

 

Hanzo pauses, falls silent for a moment and hesitates.

 

“You got what you came here for,” he points out, “The sock has been safely returned. For the cheapest ransom I have ever demanded, by the way. Should you not be returning to your apartment?”

 

“Yeah, probably should,” Jesse concedes.

 

Neither of them get off the dryer. The snow pile in front of the door grows another few inches. Getting back to Jesse’s apartment ain’t gonna be fun.

 

“I live one street away,” Hanzo says, watching the snow outside and guessing Jesse’s mind, “Above a Japanese restaurant…”

 

Jesse looks down at his laundromat partner.

 

Hanzo’s eyes are wide, his mouth is set, he looks determined. But _nervous_. In a good way.

 

Jesse smiles. He brushes Hanzo’s single lock of bangs behind his ear, and presses in for a brief kiss. Hanzo’s hand slides up Jesse’s leg to his hip.

 

Then an unholy combination of anguished beeping and what sounds like the buzzing of an electrified cat goes off, sending Jesse into a near panic. Until he realizes it’s the damn dryer switching off. By then it’s too late, Hanzo is already inches away from him and retreating further.

 

Hanzo hops down and immediately pries open the dryer door. The door opens between Jesse’s legs forcing him to go spread eagle. Hanzo pretends to ignore this.

 

“Perm press clothes must be removed from the dryer immediately or they wrinkle,” Hanzo says, his head half inside the barrel of the dryer as he collects the socks clinging statically to the metal.

 

Technically Hanzo’s head is between Jesse’s legs, and they had _just_ kissed, and goodness, Jesse couldn’t be more keyed up if this was orchestrated to torment him.

 

Hanzo emerges from the dryer without another word, his clothes bundled in front of him, and he moves over to the folding tables. Jesse kicks the dryer door shut with a bit more force than necessary. He leans back on his hands and sighs, resigning himself to watching Hanzo fold his whites and place them in nice neat piles next to the already washed, dried, and folded colors.

 

All of Hanzo’s socks are monochrome, with subtle stitch patterns and in varying thicknesses. Classy socks. The kind you could wear to a business meeting.

 

“Why’d you keep my sock?” Jesse asks, “Why not just leave it on top of the dryer for me to pick up later? Or hide it in a corner since a lost sock apparently can be mighty tempting to thieves?”

 

Hanzo flushes. He turns his back to Jesse, still folding, “The cacti were colorful, and it was soft.”

 

“Not nearly as soft as my touch can be, darlin,” Jesse says, in an only slightly suggestive drawl.

 

Hanzo’s spine straightens and at first Jesse thinks he’s stepped in it. But then Hanzo drops the unusually large white cotton shirt thing he’s folding, and beelines straight for the dryer Jesse’s sitting on. He grabs the outsides of Jesse’s thighs, and pulls him forward till Jesse’s butt is on the very edge of the dryer, and their hips are almost flush together. And Jesse’s thinking he’s about to get that proper kiss he’s been wantin’ when Hanzo suddenly stops a hair’s breadth away.

 

Jesse gently threads his fingers into Hanzo’s hair, massaging that tiny muscle just behind the ear that is like a trigger for releasing stress. Hanzo closes his eyes, his body relaxes into Jesse’s. And with a smooth, quick tug from Jesse, the silk ribbon holding Hanzo’s topknot together falls to the floor and his hair cascades down around his face. Funnily enough, Mr. Picky-About-His-Clothes doesn’t seem to mind the dropped hair ribbon one bit. Not when Jesse keeps massaging, slowly working his way to the back of Hanzo’s head and pulling the man closer, and closer, until their noses brush. Jesse freezes.

 

Hanzo opens his eyes and stares into Jesse’s.

 

“I think you deserve a bit of soft, sweetheart,” Jesse says with a wink, “Just...maybe not my sock. I’m rather attached to those.”

 

Which is what finally drives Hanzo to drag him down for a kiss.

 

Hanzo’s strong hands pull him in even closer over the dryer, which Jesse takes as an invitation to practically wrap his legs around Hanzo’s waist, until every bit of air is squeezed out from between them, and Hanzo’s hands start to move up, underneath his shirt, and Jesse’s kissing back with all he’s got, and he’s fully aware they’re in a damn faux German chalet laundromat and there’s probably a security camera or two which means no way in hell can things go much further, but damn.

 

This feels good.

 

The makeout session, which is what it honestly probably should be termed, lasts quite a while. And even if they do stop, all Jesse has to do is caress Hanzo’s cheek, or jaw, or pass his thumb over Hanzo’s lips, and they’re back at it again. Hanzo seems to have a weakness for his face being touched, and Jesse is enjoying every minute of it cause Hanzo has the prettiest damn face Jesse has ever seen; expressive, with sharp eyes that see _everything_ and soft lips that’d put Jesse’s to shame.

 

It’s almost unfair, how damn perfect the man is.

 

They have to stop eventually. The backdoor that leads to the adjacent family quarters jingles as it unlocks, and Hanzo hastily tugs Jesse’s shirt back down and steps away from him.

 

“Oh, you boys are still here?” a little old lady with square spectacles appears in the doorway. Her face is half hidden by curly hair, a small shock of white against her dark skin. She’s grinning, but not as if she knows something, so Jesse figures they might’ve gotten away with their necking. Already he’s aching to pull Hanzo back in. It _isn’t_ fair. They’ve only known each other for a few days, the attraction shouldn’t be this strong if Jesse thinks about it logically. (emotionally he’s pretty sure he wants to take Hanzo up on his offer of a room nearby). Instead Jesse slides off the dryer and scoops up Hanzo’s ribbon, wrapping it neatly around his hand. He slips it into the pocket of Hanzo’s sweats.

 

The woman mutters something in German as she putters around, closing hanging machine doors and organizing the cleaning supplies. She stops in front of Jesse, and looks at him for a half minute. Hanzo abandons Jesse to finish folding, leaving him without a buffer.

 

“Haven’t I seen you before, boy?” the woman asks, squinting.

 

“I’m here every week, ma’am,” Jesse smiles charmingly.

 

“No,” she says tapping her chin, “No, somewhere else.”

 

“I do get around a bit, I confess,” Jesse laughs.

 

Hanzo glances behind him and gives Jesse a Look.

 

The woman meanders to the door and switches the sign from open to closed. It’s already midnight. Jesse arrived here at 7pm. “You boys can stay here till you’re finished,” she says jovially, “But don’t steal anything or I’ll sic my nephew on you.”

 

“Of course, ma’am,” Jesse tips his hat.

 

The minute the door closes behind the woman Jesse jumps to action.

 

“I gotta get out of here,” Jesse says, buttoning up his vest and wrapping his serape tightly around himself.

 

“Good luck,” Hanzo gestures to the door.

 

It’s blocked by two feet of snow.

 

“Well shit, I think that’s a new record,” Jesse observes.

 

He tries to open the door but closes it hastily as the snow begins to fall inward. “Shit…” he says, “If she recognized me and calls the cops…”

 

“Then they also would have to deal with the snow,” Hanzo shrugs. He sounds neither alarmed nor particularly worried by Jesse’s panic.

 

“They’d probably ride a motorized snow blower all the way here to get to me,” Jesse grumbles bitterly.

 

“Which would take a considerable amount of time,” Hanzo points out, “The station is not near.”

 

“How do you know…?”

 

The backdoor to the apartment opens again, interrupting them, and Jesse’s heart speeds up for all the wrong reasons. “I knew I’d seen you before!” the old woman exclaims. She totters over carrying a brilliantly ornate gold frame. She hands it to Jesse.

 

It’s the old Overwatch team photo. From his Blackwatch days. Featuring his teenage self with Reinhardt’s arm slung over his shoulder. Scribbled in the center, covering poor underappreciated Jack’s face in bright red pen are the words:  
  
“To AUNTIE! lots  
Of love! REIN!”

 

Exclamation points, bizarre capitalization, and all.

 

“I’ll be damned,” Jesse whispers.

 

“He’s a distant relative,” the woman explains, “Back before my great-great grandmother came over from Germany. We’re very proud to have such an honorable, selfless hero in our family. He calls once a year to inquire about my health and sends a half dozen chickens every Hanukkah.”

 

Hanzo leans into Jesse’s side, inspecting the photo over his shoulder. Hanzo’s arm slides comfortably around Jesse’s hips. At first the closeness feels incredibly familiar and easy. Until the man gets a good look at the photo. And then Jesse feels every one of Hanzo’s muscles tense. The arm disappears. Hanzo returns to the folding table, and starts swiftly stacking his clothes into his rucksack.

 

Jesse gives the photo back to the woman. “Tell Reinhardt ‘hi’ for me, next time you hear from him,” Jesse says with a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes, “Tell him I miss him.”

 

The woman smiles, and nods, and pats Jesse’s shoulder.

 

The minute the door closes behind her, Jesse tries to get Hanzo’s attention back. “So…” he says.

 

“I must return to my room before the blizzard worsens,” Hanzo says brusquely.

 

“Wait,” Jesse blocks his path to the door, “wait, wait, wait, please.”

 

Hanzo lifts his chin and looks stubborn.

 

“I know you recognized the people in that photo, or the logo, or something…” Jesse says placatingly, “I…”

 

“I believed you to be a criminal,” Hanzo shakes Jesse’s wanted poster in his face angrily, “And you’re not.” He says it like an accusation.

 

“Okay, that’s the first time that _not_ being true has ever been a negative,” Jesse says, holding his hands out, unsure if he should try to look innocent or not.

 

Hanzo rolls his eyes, “Move.”

 

“I _am_ a criminal though,” Jesse blurts, desperate.

 

It wins him a single eyebrow raise from Hanzo.

 

“I just...also...might have been compelled under duress to join Overwatch back in the day. For crimes I committed in my youth.”

 

“Youth as in…?”

 

“I was seventeen when the commander of Blackwatch picked me up. It was either that or jail.”

 

“And the current bounty?”

 

“I might’ve gone back to my criminal ways after Overwatch disbanded.”

 

Hanzo looks doubtful.

 

“Okay, maybe I didn’t, maybe I angered an international terrorist organization enough for them to put a falsely inflated bounty on my head, and I’ve been on the run since for fear they’ll catch up to me,” Jesse says in one breath. Hanzo starts to shoulder his way past Jesse to do the door, and Jesse hastily tries to plaster himself against the glass, asking with even further desperation, “Why does it matter??”

 

Hanzo stares at Jesse’s metal arm feebly blocking the door and turns his nose up, as if he refuses to move it out of his way because it’d be too easy a task. “I am...not a good person.”

 

“So what? Did I seem easier to flirt with when you considered me heinous enough to land a sixty million price on my head? You liked me when I had nothing but a bounty and a soft touch, what changed? You know an awful lot about me, why do I not know anything about _you_ , darlin?” Jesse asks.

 

Hanzo’s still staring at Jesse’s metal arm.

 

“I tried to kill my brother,” he says.

 

A brief pause for effect.

 

“Okay, gotta admit that’s a new one too,” Jesse says.

 

Hanzo turns his eyes to meet Jesse’s, and the full force of his glare could melt Jesse right where he stands.

 

Jesse feels under duress again; his mouth spews things he can’t be held responsible for.

 

“But not a deal breaker,” Jesse chokes.

 

Hanzo rolls his eyes and takes a deep breath. He crosses his arms over his chest and stares at Jesse like it’s a challenge.

 

“All right, I’ll trade information for information,” Jesse says, moving away from the glass door because it’s downright freezing, “You think you’re this big bad guy corrupting a do-gooder? I ain’t been active in Overwatch since the crisis. My justice dispensing days are long over.”

 

Hanzo visibly relaxes a little at this information.

 

“And, as I’m sure you’ve already figured, nowadays I’m little more than a bounty hunter, laying low,” Jesse continues, “not even able to get big time gigs. The only reason I’ve been in town for this long is cause I’m helping out a friend. What about you?”

 

Hanzo nods curtly, “I’m tracking someone.”

 

“All right, fair enough,” Jesse says, “So you’re also a bounty hunter…”

 

Hanzo neither confirms nor denies.

 

“And my bounty...never even tempted you?” Jesse prods further.

 

Hanzo shrugs, breaks their eye contact, and looks to the diamond paned windows over the folding tables where the snow is falling even harder, sparkling in the streetlights.

 

“All right then, so clearly you’re as shitty a bounty hunter as me,” Jesse concludes.

 

That earns him a laugh. Hanzo shoulders his bag down onto the tables and sits in one of the metal chairs across from it.

 

Jesse carefully crosses the room and sits a couple seats down. And then scoots closer. And closer until he’s one seat away from Hanzo’s.

 

“I take it you’ll not be heading out after all then?” Jesse asks anxiously.

 

“My clothes will get wet. The folds will be ruined. The wrong things will dry crisp and the rest too flaccid,” Hanzo says.

 

“See, that’s why I always bring my duffle down in a plastic trash bag,” Jesse suggests helpfully.

 

Hanzo covers his face with his hands and sighs. Deeply. “And here I thought you could sink no lower.”

 

“Says the man who is stuck inside an authentic German laundromat because his clothes might get a little damp.”

 

“Says the cowboy who refuses to walk a half mile home because of a little snow.”

 

“Hey partner, that is not a _little_ snow, that out there is a goddamn blizzard!”

 

Hanzo’s shoulders start shaking and Jesse realizes he’s laughing.

 

“Archer.” Hanzo says.

 

“Hmm?” Jesse asks.

 

“I’m an archer,” he clicks open a secret panel on the inside of his rucksack and it flops open to reveal a bow and small cache of arrows. “What you said before, on the phone...I never claimed to be a gun expert. I use a bow.”

 

Jesse whistles, “I take it back, you’re no longer the most beautiful thing I’ve seen all year.”

 

“This is Stormbow,” Hanzo says, a smile returning to his face, “She’s been passed down in my family through generations, each person adding their own touch. The waxed bamboo string comes from a plant that has grown on my family’s land since time immemorial. I return to replace it whenever the string breaks.” He lifts the bow out and extends it to its full size.

 

“You have to go back to Hanamura everytime you break a string?” Jesse asks.

 

Hanzo looks at him sharply. “I keep extras,” he says in total deadpan.

 

Jesse leans closer to see better.

 

Hanzo slides his pack across the linoleum and moves to the seat next to Jesse. He holds the bow on his palms so Jesse can examine the detailed inner workings.

 

“Damn, too bad I left mine at home,” Jesse says quietly, “Mine’s an antique six shooter; a rare beauty. I call her Peacekeeper.”

 

“You have a multimillion dollar bounty and you aren’t armed at all times?

 

“The poster says I got a bounty, not sense,” Jesse retorts.

 

The backdoor opens again. Sometime between when they hear the lock jingle and when the old woman actually reaches the front of the room, Hanzo magically spirits his bow back inside his case and under his seat.

 

“Waiting the storm out in here?” the woman asks with a smile, “Good choice.” She hands each of them a cup of hot cocoa topped with whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles. They accept the gift with a thank you, Hanzo looking bashful. “Be sure to stay warm, and knock on the door if you need anything,” she says and disappears once more.

 

Jesse takes a sip of the cocoa. It’s got cinnamon in it, like his mom used to make. He turns to tell Hanzo this and has to choke back a laugh.

 

Hanzo looks to be in absolute bliss. He’s got cream dotting the top half of his beard with a single pink sprinkle underneath his right nostril. He holds the mug of cocoa directly underneath his chin, as if unwilling to part with it any further. The whipped cream is already all gone.

 

“So,” Jesse says, daring to take another dangerous topic plunge, “What exactly do you do with that fancy bow of yours? Besides benevolently sparing the lives of cowboys whose bounties are equal to what the highest paid DJ makes in a year?”

 

“I am tracking down every member of my family involved in the death of my brother and killing them,” Hanzo says calmly, “As I have been doing for the past ten years.”

 

“That’s a long time,” Jesse says conversationally.

 

“Mmm,” Hanzo agrees, “And it’s given them ample time to spread out, to try and hide. My search has had to extend internationally for quite some time now.”

 

“And one of them’s here in little old Chicago?” Jesse asks.

 

Hanzo shrugs, eyes Jesse suspiciously.

 

“All right, no details,” Jesse laughs, “I probably shouldn’t be telling you who I’ve been looking for either.”

 

Hanzo nods. He sets his empty cocoa mug on the folding table. And Jesse has the privilege of watching as Hanzo discovers he has a cream moustache, licks his lips, swipes the sprinkle off onto his thumb, and sucks the finger clean.

 

“Someday we’re gonna have to delve into why that guilt of yours won’t let you kiss me unless I’m a criminal,” Jesse says hopefully.

 

“Someday,” Hanzo agrees.

 

Jesse’s beginning to realize things are gonna get a lot more complicated between him and Hanzo than simple sock theft.

 

Especially as Hanzo’s next move is to fold his legs in his seat, rest his feet on the edge, and lean his knees over onto Jesse’s lap, nestling in like a baby bird. Jesse hastily sets his own mug down (he drains it first, no need to waste good hot chocolate), and unwraps his serape. Hanzo obligingly shifts to allow the blanket to be draped over them both.

 

When they’re settled, Hanzo lays his head on Jesse’s shoulder and cuddles closer. Hanzo’s hand is like ice on Jesse’s stomach, but it's a small price to pay. Jesse’s natural body heat will warm them both up in no time anyway. He leans back in his seat, rests his head against Hanzo’s, and watches the snow fall. Pretty soon he hears a snore, and realizes Hanzo has fallen asleep.

 

It’s then, and only then, that Jesse finally surreptitiously pulls his phone out from underneath his serape. He carefully holds it down on the other side of his body, navigates to his messages, and types by feel.

 

Jesse to Dumbass Dragon 2:14am:

Hey genji guess what i think i found your brother.

 

Jesse to Dumbass Dragon 2:19am:

He’s safe but has more piercings than you warned me about, looks nothing like the photo, and wears an undercut instead of a ponytail. also next time specify that bow does not mean the ribbon kind you put on presents.

 

Jesse slips his phone back into his pocket and settles in for sleep. If his hunch turns out to be correct, he can explain everything to Hanzo in the morning. And maybe get a phone number out of the deal.


End file.
